


warm me up and breathe me

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crying, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Introspective Stanley Uris, M/M, Multi, No Audra/No Patricia, Polyamory, Rough Sex, Spanking, almost a character study, everybody lives/nobody dies au, mental health, post chapter 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-22 11:46:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21301532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: Stanley Uris has a bad day.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak/Stanley Uris, Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris, Stanley Uris/Everyone
Comments: 16
Kudos: 219
Collections: Poly Losers Club Fic Exchange





	warm me up and breathe me

**Author's Note:**

> ayeee whaddup! here's my contribution to the Poly Losers Club fic exchange! written for the-angry-pixie, who requested Stan having a bad mental health day with Richie and the other Losers making it better. I hope you enjoy how I've filled the prompt! 
> 
> I really don't think I have much to say, other than thanks to Jack for beta'ing! 
> 
> enjoy!

Stan knows it’s going to be an off-day as soon as he opens his eyes.

He lets out a heavy sigh and clutches at the heavy comforter laying over him. The fabric is soft and warm under his hands, but it doesn’t offer the same comfort it usually does. He doesn’t want to move, as if shifting will disturb the tranquility in the room—even though he already knows it’s disturbed. There’s already an overcast to his day, and Stan knows it will follow him everywhere.

He takes a deep breath and slowly sits up. Immediately, he realizes his body aches, as if it’s already been through the ringer. He feels the phantom ache of the scars that no longer frame his face and brings a hand to trace where they used to be. For a moment, he thinks he can feel the faint divots again, but a glance at the mirror sitting on his dresser tells him his face is blemish-free.

Stan’s hands drop into his lap and he stares at his palms: also pristine, no scar deep into one hand. Even resting on the bed, his hands tremble and he bites back a frustrated noise. 

Stan climbs out of bed with a shiver. Though the cocoon of warmth wasn’t comforting, it was at least warm, and it’s better than the chill in his bedroom. He’s not even sure if the chill is real or imagined—it’s only late September, it really shouldn’t be so cold outside or in his room—but it fills him nonetheless. 

He staggers over to his closet, shedding his pajamas as he goes. Naked in front of his closet, he feels ever colder, and it merges seamlessly with the dread simmering in his gut. 

Stan does his best to ignore it as he retrieves a pair of briefs from his dresser, along with an undershirt and socks. He takes a clean-pressed, baby blue button-up off a hanger and forces his fingers to cooperate as he buttons it from bottom to top. He foregoes a tie today, rubbing at his neck, knowing it would only feel like a noose around his already fragile state of mind. He puts on his slacks and slides a belt through the loops. He brushes imaginary wrinkles from his pants as he finally approaches his bedroom door. 

He stops, a hand poised reaching for the handle. Outside, he can hear the faint rumblings of his family getting ready for the day. It makes him smile. 

Bill’s typing is loud, even though he’s downstairs in the dining room; he’s on a typewriter kick lately, and the  _ clack clack clack _ echoes in their home like footsteps in a hall. 

Richie is snoring, which means he left his bedroom door open, which means Eddie is probably going to harangue him about it later. 

Eddie’s in the kitchen, Stan knows because he can hear the sizzle of something cooking. Bev’s bright laughter filters toward Stan’s room, which means she’s probably with Eddie—she loves to watch people cook, they’ve learned. 

Ben is in his study—or he was, because Stan hears the tell-tale thud of the office door falling shut followed by footsteps approaching his door. They pause just outside Stan’s bedroom.

“You up?” Ben asks, voice low enough not to attract attention but loud enough for Stan to hear.

It takes a moment for Stan to find his voice; he realizes, as he often does on days like this, that even though his thoughts have been busy and rampant, he hasn’t said a word since he woke up. “I’m up,” he confirms. “I’ll be down in a bit.”

“Okay, Stan.” There’s a soft smile in Ben’s voice, then he’s walking away and down the stairs. 

Stan doesn’t move right away. 

He strains his ears for a minute, listening for Mike—the man has heavier footfalls and always something pleasant to say in the morning—before he realizes Mike is probably at the market, today. There are still vegetables to sell before it gets too cold, and Mike’s been taking advantage of going to the local farmer’s market every week.

Stan sighs and finally curls his hand around the doorknob. The door doesn’t creak as it opens, because Ben built this house impeccably without a single creaking door or squeaking step. Stan steps out of his room but the weight on his chest doesn’t lift. He stops just outside his bedroom and for one long moment, very seriously considers going back to bed. He could ask Beverly to call the office for him, and he could sleep the day away like Richie will. 

Stan knows that won’t help. He’s had enough days like this—before and after Pennywise, all through his lie—to know what he needs to do. 

He finally steps away from his door. He goes to the bathroom, brushes his teeth and wipes his face and combs his hair until the curls look less like a rat’s nest. He stares at himself in the mirror for only a second, just long enough to make sure he looks like a person and not the ghost he feels like. 

Then, he puts all his energy and focus into walking downstairs, hand curled tight around the bannister and one step in front of the other. It’s not a big staircase but it keeps his mind occupied for a little while, at least. His foot hits the hallway and he stops again. He looks to his left, toward the dining room, then to his right, toward the kitchen.

In the dining room, Bill is intensely focused on his writing. His glasses are sliding down his nose and his hair is a rumpled auburn mess; Stan isn’t sure how long Bill has been awake, but judging by the coffee cup beside him and the two plates of half-eaten toast, it’s been a few hours at least.

In the kitchen, Eddie and Ben and Beverly are chattering. Immediately, Stan knows the company of three of his lovers would be too much, so he detours to the dining room first. 

He stops beside Bill and lays a hand on his shoulder. Bill doesn’t stop typing, but he does look up with a grin.

“Morning,” he says.

“Good morning,” Stan replies. He bends and meets Bill for a kiss, one that’s gentle and lazy. Bill hums into it, leaning up for more, until the kiss breaks. “Remember to eat something more than toast, please,” Stan says and the grin he gives with the advice doesn’t feel quite so brittle. 

Bill laughs. “Of course.” He grins at Stan again, pushes his glasses up his nose, and turns back to writing. 

Stan’s own stomach grumbles and he knows he can’t put off the kitchen anymore. He pats Bill’s shoulder before retracting his steps back toward the stairs and past them, into the lavishly designed kitchen. All marble countertops and soft, medium-toned wood cupboards. It’s a little dim, but something about the low lighting puts Stan at ease. The sunlight streaming in is still early, not so bright to be jarring; the only light on is the one above the stove, illuminating Eddie the most. 

“Stan!” Beverly says. She beams at him. He goes to her immediately, like it’s some kind of magnetic pull. She winds an arm around his waist and presses her face to his shoulder. Sat on the stool like this, she’s only a little taller than she normally is next to Stan. “How’d you sleep?”

“Fine,” he says, dropping a kiss to the top of her head. Her curls smell like fabric softener and Ben’s cologne. It’s a familiar combination, and Stan’s soothed all the more for it. “You guys?”

“Would love to be like Trashmouth and just sleep the day away, snoring without a care in the fucking world,” Eddie says from his place at the stovetop. “Lazy asshole.”

He scrapes a spatula across the pan to scramble some eggs. There’s already a half-eaten plate of eggs, bacon, and toast in front of Bev, and a fuller plate in front of Ben, and Eddie pushes the eggs onto a third plate once they’re cooked. He adds toast, two slices of bacon, and passes the plate to Bev who slides it to Stan, along with a fork. 

“You love him,” Stan says easily as he spears a bite of eggs on his fork. “We all do, even with the snoring.”

“Speak for yourself, Stanley,” Eddie says, shaking the spatula menacingly, in the general direction of Richie’s room upstairs. “I’m going to smother him if he doesn’t start using those fucking nasal strips.”

Beverly rolls her eyes affectionately and Stan finds himself grinning. He eats in peace, with Bev and Ben on either side of him and Eddie cooking up another plate to take to Bill. Eddie works from home and makes his own hours—just like Bill and Ben and technically just like Richie—and Eddie cooks almost every morning for them just because he likes to. Stan does find it soothing to watch, even as he can feel the itch growing under his skin again as his plate gets emptier and emptier. 

Beverly finishes eating first, and presses a kiss to Stan’s, Ben’s, and Eddie’s cheeks. “I’ll see you guys tonight!” She says before darting back upstairs to get ready for the day.

Ben’s next, and he follows the same ritual as Bev before stealing another piece of bacon on his way back to his office. 

Eddie stops cooking, leaving the burners on low, and comes to stand beside Stan. “Stan.”

“I’m fine, really,” Stan says, even though he knows the reassurance rings hollow and will only have the opposite effect. 

“Stan,” Eddie says again, moving closer although he raises his hands hesitantly. Stan gives him a minute nod and Eddie wraps him in a hug. Stan swallows a sob rising in his throat and curls an arm around Eddie’s waist, clutching at his shirt. He tucks his face against Eddie’s hair. “Stan, talk to me.”

“Woke up feeling off,” Stan manages to say. “That’s all.” 

“You should stay home. I’ll make Ben and Bill take the day. We can wake Richie up.” Eddie leans back to smiles faintly at Stan. 

“No, no. Sitting around won’t help. I’ll be alright.” Stan leans in and kisses Eddie. He cups his cheek and tilts his head to sweetly deepen the kiss, letting it go on languidly. Eddie hums into the kiss and only pulls away when Stan does. “I’ll see you tonight, alright?”

Eddie waits a moment. He searches Stan’s face, sucks his bottom lip between his teeth with concern. Stan smiles at him, feeling only a little like a fake, and Eddie finally relents. “Fine. But you call us, any of us, if you need anything. Alright?” 

Stan nods as Eddie plants another kiss on him, this time at his graying temple, before wandering back to the stove. Stan clears his plate, puts his dishes in the sink, and walks toward the door. Bill looks up at the sound of his footsteps and flashes him a smile without getting up. The sound of Richie snoring has since stopped, but he hasn’t come downstairs, so he’s either still fighting to stay sleeping, or maybe he’s harassing Ben in his office. 

Stan steps into his loafers and bends at the waist to tie the knots tight. He grabs his messenger bag from the hall closet, slings it over one shoulder, and grabs his keys from the rack hanging by the door. There are three other sets of keys still hanging there—Richie’s, Ben’s, and Eddie’s, because Bill hates driving and seldom goes someplace without one of the other Losers.

Stan pauses for a moment and holds his keys tight in his hand. The house key presses into his palm, almost cutting but not quite. He tries to tell himself the feeling is grounding but eventually the pounding of his pulse in his hand is more distracting than helpful. Stan lets his keys dangle from one finger and slips out into the world outside this home. 

Things only get worse from the moment he steps out the door. He bangs his head on the roof of his car as he clambers inside; sitting in the large, lavish driveway, he has to take a moment to collect himself and his frustrations. Tears burn at his eyes for a humiliating moment, but Stan tilts his head back and keeps them miraculously at bay. He starts the car, and realizes a moment too late that Richie was the last to borrow his car, because it needed a tune-up and Stan hates dealing with the people at the autoshop, and the music was left on  _ loud as fucking possible _ .

So Stan takes another moment to twist the dial to zero and collect himself once more. He grips the steering wheel with both hands until his fingers hurt. Breathing does not come easier to him, but he manages to clear his thoughts enough to back out of the driveway. He keeps the volume on zero as he drives and the buzzing in his ears overwhelms any ambient noise. 

He doesn’t get in an accident, thankfully; if he had, he’s not sure what would’ve happened. He probably would’ve cried. Would’ve called Richie or Ben to come get him. Even now, parked at work but not yet out of his car, he feels brittle. He should’ve stayed home, maybe, but the idea of being cooped up in the house feels worse. 

He turns off the car, grabs his bag from the passenger seat, and hits his head a second time as he slips out of the car. He’s still cradling his forehead as he walks inside. It’s then, as someone holds the door for him but clears their throat pointedly, that Stan realizes he left his building access badge at home. He grips at his sweater vest for a moment, panicked, before noting that yes, it’s definitely not looped around his neck like it ought to be. The person who held the door for him—Stan can’t bring himself to look them in the eyes—walks him to the security desk so he can get a visitor’s badge.

It’s humiliating. Enough so that Stan takes the stairs instead of the elevators, just for the peace and quiet. It leaves him out of breath but distracts his brain from the shame. 

Work settles for a bit, then. He slides into his little corner office and shuts the door and busies himself with his job. The buzzing in his ears doesn’t subside even a little bit, but it almost makes it easier to focus. Like the people who fall asleep to white-noise, the absence of thought inside Stan’s head leaves rooms for numbers and accounting and data. 

He works without stopping until there’s a knock at his office door. He startles but nothing happens. He clears his throat and, painfully timid, says, “Come in.”

A coworker,  _ Sally, her name is Sally, _ he thinks, pokes her head in. “There’s gourmet bagels in the cafeteria,” she says, voice gentle. “They’re pretty fancy, too.”

Stan glances at the time on his computer and nearly chokes when he realizes it’s half past noon. His stomach growls then, as if just catching up with reality, and Sally giggles in the doorway.

“Thank you, Sally,” he tells her.

“Of course, Stan.” She gives him a smile and leaves his office doorway slightly ajar when she walks away. Stan locks his computer, steels himself to inevitably face his coworkers, and stands. 

He manages to get the elevator all to himself, probably because most people around the office take their lunches at noon on the dot, including Stan normally. Stan takes the four-floor trip to gather his thoughts. 

_ Your name is Stanley Uris, _ he thinks, eyes heavy and almost closed.  _ It is just past twelve-thirty, you are at work. _ He opens his eyes as the elevator starts to slow. He feels marginally more grounded. Work has helped; it’s just numbers but it gives him a sense of purpose all the same. He feels fulfilled from a few hours of solid, uninterrupted work. He steps out of the elevator feelings lightly refreshed. Renewed.

He follows the sounds of polite chatter to the cafeteria. As he walks through the doors, the world doesn’t quite burst with noise, but Stan still flinches slightly. The lunch room is crowded with people from all floors, it seems. He follows the almost conga-esque line and does a series of half-steps until he’s finally at the front. People in white chef jackets, hair hidden in nets, gloves on their hands, stand in front of an array of all sorts of accoutrement for bagels. 

It’s a bit excessive, but it almost makes Shane smile. The extravagance feels silly, but enjoyable. He picks up a plate.

“What kind of bagel would you like?” The first person in the chef’s jacket asks him. “We have onion, plain, everything, and apple-cinnamon.”

“Everything bagel, please.”

She plucks one from a warmer; they’re pre-cut but steaming. With tongs, she places it onto his plate. 

The next person asks him if he would like cream cheese, and he says yes. The question after that is whether he’d like a bit of smoked salmon, and he says yes again. Next is capers, which despite the salt of the salmon, he agrees to. The last chef has various other little toppings, all of which Stan says no to, except for…

“Red onion?”

Stan opens his mouth to say yes, then twists his lips to say no, then hums, and the person across takes it as a yes. With tongs, they carefully layer a few slices of red onion onto the bagel. They shoot Stan a smile. 

He takes his plate to an empty table near a window and stares at the red onions. He doesn’t want them, he realizes belatedly. He should’ve said no—he  _ wanted _ to say no. But the momentary indecision had stricken him, and now he’s here. Upset, annoyingly so, over red onions on an otherwise perfectly delectable bagel. 

He doesn’t want to pick them off because suddenly the thought of even touching them is too much; then another thought hits him: how  _ rude _ it would be, when he’s in plain sight of his coworkers and the chefs. So he lifts one half of the bagel to his mouth and eats. It’s perfunctory; he doesn’t really taste it other than the brief smoke of the salmon, the salty burst of capers on his tongue. 

It’s good, except for the lingering taste of red onion on the back of his tongue and behind his molars. 

He calls out sick a quarter past one, and his boss tells him to feel better. He drives home in a daze and as he throws the car into park in the driveway, he spares a moment to be grateful again that he avoided any accidents. 

He stumbles into his house and practically falls against the front door once he’s inside. The downstairs is still and empty and for a moment, Stan is full of dread.  _ Everyone is gone, everyone left, you’re all alone Stanley. You’ve driven them all away. _

He takes a long shuddering breath and nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees Richie at the threshold of the kitchen. He’s still in his sweats from the night before along with his overly large, stupid shirt. It’s wrinkled and covered in bread crumbs.

“Stan the Man?” Richie says cautiously. “You’re home early.”

Stan stares at him. Richie does not flinch under the scrutiny. 

“Stan?” Richie tries again. He steps closer and Stan holds out a hand until Richie is within arm’s reach. Stan fists his hand in the stupid shirt with the pineapple on the front and yanks Richie closer.

Richie’s palms hit the front door with a  _ smack _ on either side of Stan’s head. 

“Stanley,” Richie says again, softer. 

“Need you,” Stan says as he bares his teeth. “Need you.”

Richie’s eyes darken and his breathing picks up a fraction in pace. He licks his chapped lips and Stan watches the movement. There’s no stirring in his gut, not yet, but it will come—he hopes. He loves each of the Losers equally, and he loves Richie. Without fail, he loves what Richie gives him that the others can’t.

The sharp edges, the roughness. The clumsiness that is full of love but brash and crooked nonetheless. Stan tightens his fist and pulls Richie in for a biting kiss. 

Richie crowds him against the door and presses against him from chest to hip. Richie’s already hard and it would make Stan smile if not for the buzzing in his ears threatening to overwhelm him again.

“Take me upstairs,” he growls against Richie’s mouth. “Take me to your room.”

“Yeah, okay.” Richie yanks away from the kiss and steps back from Stan. Stan’s body is immediately awash in a chill. Richie takes him by the biceps, tugs him away from the door, and shoves him toward the stairs. Stan goes stumbling and Richie is close on his heels.

For a brief, bright moment, it feels light and fun. It feels like Richie is giving chase and Stan is the ready and willing prey. They crash into each other at the top of the stairs, Richie’s front to Stan’s back and they nearly go tumbling back down again. But Richie’s hands land on Stan’s hips, already rucking at his shirts to get to bare skin. At the same time, Richie shoves Stan toward his bedroom. 

Stan nearly trips over some of Richie’s dirty laundry when he bursts through the door but it only means he falls onto the bed out of breath and disoriented. For a second, his brain is too dizzy to be stressed and the buzzing vanishes momentarily. Stan wrangles himself out of his clothes and leaves them in a heap beside Richie’s bed.

The buzzing starts to return when Stan is naked and laid out on Richie’s bed. Richie stands at the end of the bed, still fully clothed. Slowly, achingly so, he pulls off his stupid shirt but doesn’t get rid of his sweats. He climbs onto the bed and when Stan opens his mouth to complain, Richie slaps a hand over his mouth.

Richie pauses then, searching Stan’s face. Stan blinks once, carefully and measured. Richie’s hand clamps a little harder over his mouth. With his free hand, he digs lube out from under the pillow and clumsily manages to click up three fingers. He’s rough and quick about it. He wastes no time, and somewhere deep in his chest Stan finds himself able to be thankful. 

He lets his eyes flutter shut and pants harshly against Richie’s hand as three fingers spread him open. When Richie decides he’s ready—but Richie knows, Richie would never move a moment too soon, for all his endearing fumbling, he would never truly hurt Stan—Stan finds himself flipped over with his face pressed into the pillow.

He retches slightly. The pillow smells like Richie’s shampoo and sweat and it’s comforting and abruptly disgusting; the taste of red onions returns to the back of his throat and Stan thinks he might actually vomit. But then Richie’s huge hand is in his hair, yanking his head up so he can gasp for air. 

Stan blinks and realizes Richie is inside him as deep as he can go. A moan tears from Stan’s throat and he finds his mouth full of two thick fingers, hooked at the corner of his lips like a fish on a line. Richie’s other hand, the lube-sticky one, is clinging to his hip in a grip that bruises. Stan knows his skin on his right hip will be a faintly mottled purple and yellow, like the bruise can’t quite decide if it wants to stay or not. 

Stan wails around the fingers in his mouth and curls his hands into the bedsheets. His back is arched uncomfortably, he’s too fucking old for this, but he clings to the pain. Same as he clings to the faint ache of Richie’s cock stretching him open, the press of Richie’s hand on his hip, the stretch of Richie’s fingers pulling at his mouth. 

Stan tries to speak but Richie’s fingers push suddenly forward. They skirt across his tongue and back towards his throat and his whole body convulses. A shiver runs through him like a bolt of lightning before Richie’s fingers recede.

They press on Stan’s bottom lip like some kind of faintly calloused kiss. “What do you want, Stan?” Richie growls. He’s fucking into Stan at a brutal pace. His thrusts are sharp and quick, deep and satisfying. But it’s not enough. “Tell me what you need.”

“Hit me,” Stan gasps. It gives Richie pause for only a second—it’s not the first time Stan has requested this, probably won’t be the last—before the fingers move from his lips to his hair again. Richie holds tight like it’s a rein. He uncurls his other hand from Stan’s hip and brings it down, harsh and abrupt, against Stan’s ass. Flat palm to pale skin and Stan can practically feel the individual blood vessels bursting. He rocks forward, tip of his cock gliding against the bed sheets, and moans. One hand flexes in his hair while the other rains down smack after smack to his ass. 

Richie’s isn’t an amateur. He alternates cheeks, aims higher or lower so no one spot is too tender. Stan’s brain is going fuzzy. He almost believes that it’s working: that the voices inside his head will be quiet and replaced with the loving sting of Richie’s hands on him. But as Richie grunts above him, pressing his hand into the tender and abused skin, Stan realizes the fuzziness inside his head is only the buzzing from before, louder than ever. 

Suddenly, Stan just can’t keep himself up. He goes limp in Richie’s hold and Richie lets him falls forward onto the bed. His mouth is full of Richie’s scent and the haunting taste of red onions and above him, Richie thrusts a few more times before slowing down.

“...Stan?” Richie asks in a voice that’s gentle in a way Stan doesn’t think he deserves. 

“Sorry,” Stan says to the pillow. A gentle hand takes his chin, guides him up off the bed so when he speaks, it’s clear. “Sorry,” he says again, and he doesn’t realize he’s crying until he hears Richie’s soft inhale. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Richie mutters. He pulls out slowly and it leaves Stan throbbing with loneliness. His dick is soft, trapped between his body and the sheets, and Stan hides his face in the pillows again. Richie clambers off the bed and runs a soothing hand along his spine. “Stan, Stan, baby, you gotta talk to me.” 

Stan shakes his head and smears his tears across the cotton.

“Fuck,” Richie repeats. He frets for a moment—Stan can practically feel the anxiety wafting off him like his shitty cologne—before disappearing. The room feels smaller for his absence and Stan curls up. The sheets against his skin feel like weeds, sharp and hidden in tall grass. He can’t get comfortable, and he’s so fucking tired he wishes his brain would just stop. 

Richie returns and Stan flinches at the hand at his back. Ben’s voice is gentle and careful as he says, “We’re here, Stan, it’s okay.”

The bed dips with numerous other bodies. Stan doesn’t open his eyes but he knows who everyone is by feeling:

Ben climbs into the corner closest to the wall and brings Stan’s head to rest on his thigh. Eddie is beside Ben, with his knobby knees near Stan’s limp hands. Richie curls up behind him, not wrapped around him but wanting to, Stan knows. Bill sits near his legs. 

“Mike will be home soon,” Eddie says softly. “And we called Bev.”

“You didn’t have to,” Stan manages to croak.

“She wants to be here,” Ben says. His hand is gentle in Stan’s hair. “So does Mike.” 

Richie’s hand lands on his left hip and stays there, a calming weight. Eddie reaches out and holds one of Stan’s hands, playing with his fingers. Bill has a hand wrapped around Stan’s calf, long fingers spread across muscle, warm and grounding. 

Stan doesn’t know when he falls asleep, but he must. He opens his eyes when his head is moved: so that Eddie may clamber into Ben’s lap, before resting Stan’s head again. Eddie’s shorts smell like the lemony Lysol he buys. Stan buries his face against the fabric and falls asleep again. 

The next time he opens his eyes, he realizes Mike has joined them on the bed. Probably why Eddie had to move, because Mike is in his former spot. Mike takes Stan’s hands and holds them between his own. His palms are calloused and rough and Stan’s hands tremble in his hold. Mike brings them up and brushes a kiss over Stan’s knuckles. 

“Go to sleep,” he murmurs, so Stan does. 

He wakes again when he smells Beverly’s perfume. She sits near his feet with Bill and runs a hand along his bare thigh. It doesn’t feel sensual. Only warm. Only comforting. 

Surrounded by his six best friends and lovers, Stan finally feels the knots inside his brain and chest start to unwind. He melts against the bed with a whimper, and all the Losers move closer. They each hold him just incrementally tighter, a wordless promise.

_ We’re here. _

_ We love you. _

_ It’s okay. _

He won’t ever be able to explain to them what the inside of his head is like. They know this—and Stan knows this, though it still frustrates him. Days like this happen, have always happened, will continue to happen. They will always make Stan feel a little crazy. They will always make him feel weak. 

But he doesn’t have to weather them alone. Not anymore. He sniffles against the pillows and still can’t bring himself to raise his head and look at any of the people around him. He doesn’t have to. They understand. Slowly but surely, though Richie’s bed is far too small for the seven of them, they all sort of meld into a pile. Beverly ends up nearly on top of Stan, and Richie is still spooning him from behind; his head is still in Eddie’s lap, who’s in Ben’s lap, and Mike and Bill lay across each other while also, kind of, laying across Stan.

It’s a mish-mash. A tangle. Stan isn’t entirely sure where his body ends and the others’ begins. 

For the first time in several hours, he smiles. He closes his eyes and knows, when they all rise—inevitable because of hunger or a crick in their necks—that things will be better. 


End file.
